


for a boy, for a body in the garden

by PandaFlower



Series: in the hollows of eyelids [1]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Gen, Necromancy, Summoning, Supernatural Elements, bit of angst, cause you can't tell me that wasn't a Process, featuring: the years leading up to the Edo Tensei, liberal interpretation of Japanese mythology, poking at the afterlife only to get poked back harder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-11
Updated: 2020-03-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:07:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23103697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PandaFlower/pseuds/PandaFlower
Summary: Tobirama knows he shouldn’t be doing this.He always knows.Even when he doesn’t want to.But the nightmares have been insistent lately, and the voices of recrimination in his head are biting and vituperative and refuse to be blocked out, just hissing, hissing, hissing—Poking at the unfinished Edo Tensei helps him feel productive, satisfies a part of him that never quite made it past the bargaining stage of grief.He wasn't expecting what poked back.
Relationships: Senju Tobirama & Shinigami
Series: in the hollows of eyelids [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1660588
Comments: 29
Kudos: 382





	for a boy, for a body in the garden

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, so I fucked around and started something new instead of working on my present wips. You know, like a fool full of hubris. But seriously, we have a necromancer and a canon death god, why is no one exploring this potential? Gotta do everything myself around here. xD

Tobirama knows he shouldn’t be doing this.

He always knows.

Even when he doesn’t want to.

But the nightmares have been insistent lately, and the voices of recrimination in his head are biting and vituperative and refuse to be blocked out, just hissing, hissing,  _ hissing— _

Poking at the unfinished Edo Tensei helps him feel productive, satisfies a part of him that never quite made it past the bargaining stage of grief. But it’s fine. He’s fine. Come morning he’ll be shaking with exhaustion and the Edo Tensei as unfathomable as ever, but. His head will be his own again. 

And that’s worth everything.

The seal that takes shape under his hands is precise, for all that he feels his hands ought to be shaking. He’s feeling whimsical tonight so the base is four times four — death times death — and the vernacular of the sealing language is meandering and decidedly reflects his off mood. It’s appallingly avant-garde in design, recklessly without boundaries, and in the morning Tobirama is sure to loathe it and burn it to the last note. But here in this moment, a little recklessness feels good. 

Feels  _ freeing. _

Gradually, the tension seeps from his shoulders, the sleepless fever draining out like pus from a sore; painfully, but inevitably under his desperate focus. His hands really do shake when he finally rinses the ink from his brush and sets it aside, surveying the butcher’s work of a seal laid out before him.

Honestly, the longer he looked at it the more it seemed to make his eyes ache, trying not to get caught in the menacing optical illusion he’s unintentionally woven in his restless state. The ugly thing might not even make it to the morning before he burned it. He turned aside in disgust. As good as it felt to exorcise it, it was repulsive to behold, almost more disgusting for the fact that he’d been carrying it around inside him like a rotting seed.

Maybe he should just go to bed? Surely this was enough. Surely he was finally worn himself out enough that the whispers will quiet and his dreams will go unremembered?

That’s all he wants.

Such a little thing to ask.

Such a little thing…

Tobirama shook his head, busying himself with putting away his tools. If he was coming out the other side of manic into maudlin then he really needed to go to bed lest he sink into an even more regrettable mood. It was long past midnight anyway, and the shadows in the room were growing longer and darker as the lantern burned down.

He takes a moment to lean on the counter, and because he’s tired a moment stretches into minutes as he stares blankly at nothing, thoughts scattering like spooked butterflies. The peacefulness of it lulls him, shoulders sagging, the shift in weight making him slip against the counter and nearly sends him stumbling. He really ought to go to bed now. It’s not like there’s anything out that won’t keep to a more decent hour anyhow, it’s just habit not to leave a mess. Evidence of his disturbing anything.

He makes to leave the lab. Like the weight of gravity on space, his gaze drags inexorably to the seal. Somehow, it didn’t feel wise to leave it unattended, for the same reason one didn’t keep hundred year old items; it invited demons.

Tobirama has enough demons to contend with. He doesn’t need new ones.

It would be irresponsible not to dispose of the repulsive thing.

And anyway, it would be just Tobirama’s luck to oversleep today, driving Hashirama to look for him in the lab — given it would be inconceivable to look for Tobirama  _ in his own home, _ heaven forbid — and find the damn thing out in the open. Tobirama didn’t need another lecture.

With a quiet sigh, Tobirama rolls the seal up tight, the drag of paper on paper loud in the room, almost harsh on his nerves. He pulls a curl of chakra up his throat, and with a few quick hand seals, breathes it out as fire, catching the paper alight like a make shift torch, chasing the shadows into corners for fever-bright seconds until the fire dims and greedily chews down to his fingers. 

He dumps the ashes in the sink, content.

No demon will haunt him this night.

Or so he thinks right up until the door sticks fast under his hand, refusing to budge despite being unlocked and in perfect working order earlier. Tobirama was not so far into the vagaries of his own restless thoughts as to completely miss someone sneaking up to tamper with his laboratory door, especially not so late at night, so how—?

There is a presence behind him.

He does not want to look.

_ But he must. _

A figure of myth and lore fills Tobirama lab. 

They’re— He? — is thoroughly intimidating in size, from the large head of white hair and broad, stooped shoulders that brush the ceiling to the massive, near gaunt torso barely clothed by sweeping mourning clothes of deathly white. He’s so huge, in fact, that he has to crouch to fit in the room, clawed toes curling and gouging the floor, an enormous beast settling in comfortably.

Tobirama doesn’t need to examine skin as purple as a rotting cadaver’s to know he stands in the presence of a dead thing.

_ The _ dead thing, really.

_ Shinigami.  _

No living man doesn’t know the name.

This is… not what Tobirama intended to summon. Summoning was not even Tobirama’s intent tonight. His thoughts fly at the speed of panic, shuffling through hows and whys to explain this being of death appearing before him now.

He— he doesn’t know.

Cautiously, so cautiously, he has no idea what he’s dealing with, Tobirama kneels and bows with full respects, greeting, “Shinigami-sama.”

The Shinigami clicked the tanto between his teeth. Tobirama has no idea how to interpret the motion. “Izanagi,” the god greets, deep and ponderous and strange. “How strange to see one so steeped in lofty life bow so low to one of death.”

Tobirama freezes in confusion, a gasp caught between his teeth. He looks up. The yellow gaze of the Shinigami pierces through him and pins him where he kneels.

He’s never felt so small or insignificant in his life.

“...I am afraid—”  _ don’t call a god mistaken! _ “I don’t understand, Shinigami-sama. I am not Izanagi-no-mikoto to the best of my knowledge.” Tobirama fought to keep his breathing even. “And to the best of my knowledge I have made no overtures to summon anything, much less your inevitable self.”

“Oh no?” Horrifyingly, the Shinigami only seemed  _ amused. _ The god shifts, reaches for Tobirama, snatching him by the throat in a move that was paradoxically too slow and too fast with an arm that was too long and too short and just all around made Tobirama’s brain hurt to perceive. The god drags Tobirama close, looming over the paled, mortal man on his knees. “Purifying flames breathed on my talisman, fueled by breathe laden with your own lifeforce, and Izanagi claims nothing and no one was summoned to attend him this night? How fickle Izanagi has always been, so coy, so flirtatious, so prone to empty promises he’ll never commit to.”

Tobirama is beginning to panic in truth. He knows, in a vague manner, the tale of Izanagi-no-mikoto. The creator god who tried to drag his wife from the underworld only to balk at the last minute at her rotting visage, hurrying to seal her, raging and enraged and swearing vengeance, into the underworld forever. 

Who would wish to be conflated with that god before an associate of Izanami-no-mikoto?

Surely, that was certain doom.

Surely?

The fog of sleep resentfully retreats but it doesn’t return the clarity of a waking mind, spitefully taking it recompense. Tobirama swallows dryly against the cool palm wrapped around his throat, the hand so large the littlest finger jutted out to curl around his collarbone instead. The narrow, sunken face of the Shinigami fills his vision entirely, the wild hair and broad shoulders blocking off his peripherals. It makes the room seem stifling and small, barely containing its occupants, straining at the corners.

This is so very, very bad.

Tobirama has already misstepped several times in this meeting. So taken off guard he’s utterly failed to manage impressions. Bowed when he should have been bold, maybe. He can hardly think right now. It doesn’t matter what his own perspective on the matter is, when it comes to summoning what matters is the careful negotiation of the impressions the summoned one forms.

What should he do now? He can’t— he can’t just  _ ask _ what the Shinigami wants, not when Tobirama’s the summoner. That’s too much weakness! But it can’t be denied the summoning was unintentional. And without an intention to fulfill Tobirama cannot easily send the death god away, to do so, to imply he summoned such a being on a lark, it would be unforgivably base rudeness.

But at the same, Tobirama cannot—  _ absolutely cannot _ play along at being Izanagi.

Gnarled knuckles flex under his chin.

Time’s up.

“Izanagi doesn’t know himself,” the Shinigami says. To himself, lightly. Thoughtfully.  _ Gleefully. _ Under the sharp edges of teeth and blade. “Izanagi doesn’t  _ know. _ I see it now. Izanagi needs to be reminded who he is. This burden, I will aid you.”

Tobirama immediately hates the sound of that.

He curls a hand around the one clutching his throat, braces the other on the emaciated wrist. He refrains from doing something as obvious as squirm in discomfort, but he dearly wishes he had that liberty. “I would hate to trouble you,” he manages. “I’ve already been a poor enough host. A guest should not have to exert themselves on a host’s behalf.”

Even as he says it he knows it’s a weak rejoinder. Shinigami will do as he pleases. Take as he pleases. Shinigami is no one’s guest because death lives under every roof already.

But he’s had death’s hand on his nape before and he has yet to die.

“It is equally discourteous for a guest to arrive empty-handed, is it not?” The Shinigami tsked, affecting the manner of a chiding elder. It was difficult to gauge how mocking it was supposed to be. “Izanagi is young and ignorant. He will learn in time.” And saying such extended a gnarled finger to trace over Tobirama’s cheek.

“That doesn’t mean you have to be the one to educate me!” Tobirama shoves backward but the Shinigami’s grip is relentless, it doesn’t budge, it only shifts so Tobirama ends up cradled by the giant palm, a clawed thumb shoved up under his chin to hold him still. “I’m not Izanagi! I’m only a man like any other! I’m not—”

A claw tip rests against his left cheek, gently dimpling the skin.

There’s neither mercy nor pity to be found in the Shinigami’s gaze. There’s no light to be found at all.

“I remember…” the Shinigami rumbled softly. “Amaterasu fell from this cheek.” The sharp edge dug in and Tobirama braced himself, clenching his eyes shut. A line of fire swept down Tobirama’s face, following the Shinigami’s claw.

It felt like it ought to be bleeding.

The claw moved right.

“Tsukuyomi from this cheek.”

Tobirama whimpered, fighting not to shake.

The claw moved down.

“And Susano’o… from the chin, yes.” The Shingami concluded, letting Tobirama slump forward at last, clutching at his face with a pained moan. “Ah, Izanagi looks more himself like this.”

Tobirama shakily pulled his hands back, staring a bit dumbly at the lack of blood on them. Nothing felt… broken? The skin was still whole, and the fire was banking even as he registered the lack of true injury. The death god’s hand was heavy on his back. It would bow him forward if he let it, but it also felt…

Cautiously, Tobirama shrugged his shoulders, and when the Shingami made no move to stop him shrugged out of the god’s grasp entirely.

“What did you…” Tobirama breathed, unable to quite finish, fingers tracing over his face again.

The Shinigami regarded him solemnly, gaze heavy. “It is so rare to meet Izanagi. He’s always hiding.” The tanto clicked between sharp teeth. “I find Izanami in near every mortal I meet, endlessly inviting the living towards death. Only rarely do I find Izanagi, so tentatively inviting the dead towards the living.”

Tobirama’s breath hitched, eyes widening. 

“Ah, Izanagi begins to see the shape of it now.” Horrifyingly, the Shinigami laughed. It was a surprisingly light-hearted sound. That emaciated, sharp face drew closer, close enough that wild, white hair brushed Tobirama’s forehead. “Izanagi holds the keys to the doors that matter most. Even now, Izanagi’s longing to open them nestles in his breast like a pet songbird longs for the trees outside its cage. One day, Izanagi will not be able to help himself, he will not  _ want _ to help himself. And when that day comes—”

Tobirama involuntarily shrank back at the inhuman  _ glee _ in that smile, transfixed and yet repulsed. 

The Shinigami leaned back, monstrous delight melting back into placidity. “When that day comes I will be very pleased indeed.”

Tobirama knelt there on the floor, numb and exhausted beyond shock, long after the Shinigami faded with the shadows, the light of false dawn beginning to turn the air silver and shivering.

Or maybe he’s the one shivering.

So much for demons.


End file.
